


Ghosts

by robinfan2



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-18 01:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinfan2/pseuds/robinfan2
Summary: The Batman has his Scrooge moment.





	1. Humbug

_“Come, then,” returned the nephew gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.”_

_Scrooge, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, “Bah!” again; and followed it up with “Humbug.”_

JASON did this every Christmas Eve - right after Gotham City’s most desirable bachelor took him in. The tradition was briefly interrupted following a hiatus that was his death, and resumed with much vigour after he was reconciled with his family. He told them it was to indulge Alfred Pennyworth, who adored the classic Dickens story.

Bruce was on to him. Jason recited the Scrooge’s misadventures with phantoms out loud just to mess with his adoptive father. Although Bruce Wayne, the scion of philanthropies, was no miser, his alter-ego as Batman the Vigilante made him - as Jason called it - the humbuggerest of party-poopers of all time.

Whatever that meant.

“One night!” Jason said to him yesterday while on patrol as the Red Hood. “One night of the 365 in the year to just sit back in front of a fireplace, watching your kids toast marshmallows. One night!”

“We can do that on Christmas Day,” he replied, while trussing up a mugger like Christmas turkey.

“Not the same,” chirped his other son, Nightwing, over the comms. “Fairy lights twinkling. Keeping warm in front of the fire while we watch the snow fall gently through the picture window. Decorating the tree - B, you have to show li’l D how we do Christmas Eve in the Manor!

“Leave me out of your inane plans, Grayson,” the current Robin snarled. “You’re always up to something to embarrass me.”

“Code names,” he reminded them. “The criminal element -“

“- will be having their own Christmas Eve dinner,” Red Hood interjected.

“Besides the GCPD has rostered staff to oversee Gotham tomorrow.” His older son, Dick Grayson, sounded too pleased with himself. “Hey, Red Robin, back me up on this.”

His third adoptive son remained silent, prompting him to call out, “Red?”

A few seconds later, they heard Red Robin’s voice over the comms. “There’s a guy trying to get into the Casino and the bulges in his coat are definitely not from Santa.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. My sensors show a Claridge Hi-Tec, a Beretta, a Ruger revolver, and three homemade grenades.”

“Hmm…” the Red Hood, the sound of the wind through the comms telling them he’s already grappling over the top of the buildings. “Somebody want to bring in the New Year a week too early.”

Batman knew he had to put a stop to all the good cheer and get his sons to focus. “You all heard Red Robin,” he growled, “Move, people!”

***

In the end his two older sons got their wish. Somewhat.

Jason, with his wrapped sprained ankle resting on the coffee table, was reading _A Christmas Carol_ while enjoying his second mug of eggnog. The eggnog his second adoptive son had made with Bruce’s best brandy.

Good thing his son was the generous sort. Too bad anyone who drank it would be tipsy by midnight.

Dick’s left shoulder was heavily wrapped and his arm was supported by a sling. That didn’t stop him from partaking of his brother’s eggnog while decorating the pine tree that Alfred had brought into the Manor yesterday.

His biological son, thirteen-year old Damian, did not allow his sprained wrist from unravelling the many strings of lights, tinsel and bead garlands they had accumulated over the years. His mug of hot cocoa remained untouched on the coffee table as he regarded the Christmas decorations with same focus as doing a _kata._

Bruce glanced at the hallway. He could hear Alfred puttering in the kitchen, no doubt preparing their Christmas Eve dinner, which was not for another four hours. It had been quite a busy few weeks and the butler was unable to put up decorations in the Manor’s interior except for the tree and the stockings hung up by the fireplace.

The kids didn’t seem to mind and were excited to be able to decorate the Christmas Tree their way. Well, Dick anyway.

“This is insufferable!” Damian snapped, dropping the strings onto his lap. “Todd,” he bellowed to his brother. “Where is Drake? He should be here picking through this mess with us!”

“How should I know? Ask him when he comes over.”

“He’s not coming tonight,” he told them nonchalantly as he made himself comfortable in his arm chair.

He felt his sons’ eyes turn on him.

“What?” he asked, confused. There was a question. He gave an answer.

“Father,” Damian started. “I was under the impression Drake looks forward to Christmas Eve dinners.”

“Yeah,” Jason agreed, his book now laying open-faced on his lap. “I’m still traumatised at how he demolished the Christmas ham last year and still had room to decimate the Christmas turkey the next day. And don’t get me going at how he practically inhaled the stuffings, the mashed potatoes, the fruitcake, Ma's pie… Even my eggnog didn’t stand a chance!”

“Oh, man, that was crazy!” Dick laughed, wincing slightly when he jarred his arm. “He ate all the leftovers within 24 hours. It was gross! He went on and on like the Energizer bunny. Alfred didn’t have to empty and clean the fridge.”

The youngest nodded. “I asked Drake why he gorged himself so. He merely shrugged and said, _c’est la vie_."

A deep furrow marred his son’s forehead. “If Drake enjoys our bemusement over his appetite, then why is he not here?”

All three pairs of blue eyes shifted back to their father as their focus.

He tried not to stutter. He really did. But only Batman did not stutter or get nervous. And right now he’s Bruce Wayne, father to three rambunctious yet brilliant vigilantes.

Just his luck.


	2. Scrooge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's always Batman's fault.

_Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster._

WHY was this his fault? Why was it always his fault?

“I believe it’s because you’re the Batman, sir,” Alfred had intoned, morosely, like explained everything.

It was not his fault his three vigilante sons ignored Red Robin’s instructions that they got themselves injured.

“Damian,” his second eldest offered after downing the dredges of his mug. “It’s the brat who cha-cha’d when he was supposed to tango.”

Damian frowned but stayed silent.

“And this is my fault because - ?”

“He’s the fruit of your loins from when you banged Talia. You know, Tropic of Capricorn or somethin’. Or was it Cancer?”

Bruce felt a headache coming on as his youngest snarled at his brother. Jason merely raised an eyebrow.

“And because you taught us to look after our _little_ brothers,” Dick piped up, tinsel in his hair. “It’s your fault we left our backs open for those thugs to attack us.” His eldest paused, then added for good measure, “You should have been there. Yep, your fault.”

“I was coming from the Coventry,” he gritted. ”I wasn’t anywhere close to the Diamond District.”

“Then you should have come sooner, Father,” Damian snipped, returning to the strings of fairy light he’d been untangling. “I expect nothing less from the Batman.”

He took deep breaths, counted to ten in German, Cantonese and Tagalog, and he’s still nowhere near migraine-free.

“Tim volunteered to cover your patrols tonight,” he reminded them, barely hiding the smugness in his voice.

They all gaped at him.

“And you let him?” screeched his eldest.

“Of course,” he answered, confused. Not sure where this was going to.

“Why?”

“Well, it seemed like a most rational idea.”

Just like an undertaker, Alfred nailed the coffin shut, “And that’s why it always entirely your fault, Master Bruce.”


	3. Darkness is Cheap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce sulks on Christmas Eve.

_The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms._

CONTRARY to what many people believed his sanctuary was not the study, where a giant painting of his departed parents loomed over a comfortable leather sofa and a huge recliner. Neither was the Masters bedroom with its massive, customised four-poster bed. Both of which have their own lovely fireplaces. Warm and snug.

Nope. His sanctuary where he could avoid his father-figure’s and his sons’ judgmental stares was here. Where he exiled himself. Where it’s cold, drafty and slightly damp. Where there’s a constant chittering noise.

The Batcave.

_Damn._

Last time he checked he’s the current Master of stately Wayne Manor. One of the perks was snuggling in his favourite armchair toasting in front of a log-fed fire. It’s so unfair he’s down here in the cold, checking his third son’s wellbeing in what may turn out to be a quiet, crime-free night. 

“Code Beta one five alpha nancy alpha five five four zero lima echo.”

He paused at the passcode and ran it through his brain. _Wait a minute -_

B 15 an a55h0le.

_Damn those kids!_

Alfred told him the new passcode for the Bat computer last night.

_Damn Alfred, too. May his cucumber sandwiches rot in hell!_

He flopped into his chair, specifically made for his size and standards and gazed at the monitor. One of the windows showed Red Robin perched on one of the gargoyles of Wayne Tower. The one facing Old Gotham. The dragon one with wings spread out behind it as it curiously peeked over the ledge. One of the more benign-looking and beautiful gargoyles in Gotham City. His son’s favourite.

“Red Robin,” he hailed through the comms. “Sitrep.”

“Stopped a family street brawl and two drunken fisticuffs,“ was the answer. “Oh, I also found a missing cat.”

Bruce couldn’t stop a chuckle. The young vigilante had no trouble attracting felines of the four-footed kind.

“Do you think I should hand it over to your fiancée for safekeeping? She being, you know, Catwoman and all?”

“Selina’s having a Ladies’ Night.”

He saw the grimace in Red Robin’s face. “That’s a _no_ then.”

“Have you contacted the owner?” he asked, bringing them both to the business at hand.

“Affirmative. They lost her while on their way to New York. She must have slipped out from the van when they were at a pit stop for a stretch and a break. They realised she was gone an hour away from NYC.”

“She?”

“The cat’s a girl and her name is Brie. I think she’s a ragdoll.”

“I take it you’re taking her to an animal shelter?”

“Ummm... Negative. Animal shelter’s closed. So she’ll be staying with Alvin Draper until the family returns to Maryland. They’ll pick her up on their way back.”

Bruce had to rub his temples. Alvin Draper may be one of his son’s effective aliases but Timothy Jackson Drake Wayne was an easily identifiable personality in Gotham City. 

As if his son could read his mind, Red Robin said, “I’ll put on a stubble and a pair of glasses. Promise. And get them to pick up Brie from one of the safehouses. Chill, B.”

“I’m already cold!” he snapped, rubbing his hands. Damn, he didn’t want to whine like a child.

Before he could apologise, Red Robin asked, quietly, ”What’s wrong, B? Really wrong?”

He breathed out, suddenly sullen and feeling conflicted. He’s the father in this family of misfits. He should exude strength and maturity.

“They giving you a hard time?”

“Yes,” he replied. It was a relief to finally admit he was overwhelmed with his other sons’ attitude towards him. “I don’t even know what I did wrong!” he said after filling his guts out to his third son.

Tim’s smile was uncertain but his voice held confidence. “Don’t let them get to you, B. Don’t worry. They’ll get over whatever’s bothering them in time for dinner. Besides, it’s Christmas Eve.”

The word, dinner, seemed to have struck a chord in him.

“Maybe you should come to dinner,” he said. “Cut patrol and come to the Manor.”

Tim snorted. “Somebody has to patrol.”

“It is a quiet night.”

“Did I mention a family brawl and drunks fighting?”

“Situations that GCPD can handle easily enough.”

Red Robin shrugged. “Still, the night is young.”

Bruce felt something slipping from his fingers. Something urgent. Important. 

“Come to the Manor after patrol.”

“It would be too late by then. I’d be too tired to ride to Bristol. And I do have a huge cat to take care of.”

“You can bring the cat to the Manor.”

There was a long pause.

“I see something. Gotta go.”

“Why does it feel like you’re lying to me?” he sighed. His son was being evasive. He could feel it. Circumstantial evidence all point to it. But why?

“Go back to them, B. They need you. The bat computer will raise the alarm if I get in trouble.”

“Tim -“

“I’m a big boy now, B. Over and out!”


	4. Man of the Worldly Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce enters The Garden.

_“How now?" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?”_

SUDDENLY he felt tired. It could be a side effect of imbibing Jason’s eggnog. It could be that last conversation he had with Red Robin. It could be… Well, no doubt that talk with his third adoptive son had unsettled him.

He could sense Tim’s reluctance to come to the Manor. A major shift in attitude towards this somewhat tradition his family had established over the years. Tim was normally one who showed the most enthusiasm about spending Christmas Eve with his family. Though Bruce suspected Dick was equally enthused but had taken on a veneer of nonchalance to appear “cool” among his brothers.

Nevertheless, a talk was in order for young Timothy tomorrow, Bruce decided, before yawning. Or maybe he could do it tonight?

A slight sound ended his reverie, his eyes peering into the shadows surrounding the glass cases protecting the Robins’ uniforms. First on the left was the first Robin uniform, the red tunic shining through the darkness. Beside it was the torn, mutilated suit that had been singed when the Joker detonated the bomb that killed his second son. Damian’s damaged Robin uniform was next because he followed Jason’s death. The last one in the row was Tim’s; a spare because nothing was left when the drones flew in for the kill.

Thank God, his sons were back. All of them.

He closed his eyes and sat back, loosening the tautness in his neck. He could do with a massage. A deep tissue massage. Or maybe Shiatsu with a little Swedish thrown in. Right after a sauna and a hot shower. There’s that really good masseur in Wayne Tower. 

_Hmm…_

But then there’s Christmas Eve dinner.

_Damn._

He sat up and opened his eyes and found the Batcave… was no longer a Batcave.

Instead he’s in a Garden within what it seemed a very large hedge maze, with endless paths laid beyond only to cross each other at points. At a far distance he could see a range of craggy, sharp peaked mountains, a Greek coliseum atop of one, a pagoda on another. All around the maze was a hodgepodge of ruined cathedrals, Roman columns, crumbling walls, moulding stone bridges, decrepit castles, and other structures he had seen either in his travels or in history books. There was no sun, yet there was light, and a dreamy mist hovered in this land making it feel forlorn and forgotten.

“Welcome, Bruce Wayne, only son of Thomas and Martha,” a voice spoke behind him.

He turned sharply and saw a thin man covered and hooded in brown robes standing on the steps of a large, beautiful white castle. The man was tall, far taller than Bruce, and he was carrying a heavy tome that was chained to his wrist.

Bruce slowly stood from his chair. Yes, from the computer chair he had specially made for his own bum.

“Who are you?” he asked, unable to curb the snarl from his voice. “Where is this?”

“I am Destiny,” the man, who smelled like old books and musty parchments, intoned. “The eldest of the Endless. You are in my realm. It is known as The Garden. All mazes find their way here." 

“Why am I here?”

He saw a slight smile on the Stranger’s face. “The same reason I am here.” He gestured to the large book in his hand. “It is as is written.”

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the Charles Dickens classic. Merry Christmas, y'all.


End file.
